


(not very) sleepy morning sex

by etben



Category: due South
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-21
Updated: 2009-12-21
Packaged: 2017-10-04 20:11:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/33670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/etben/pseuds/etben
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Ray wants his sleepy, lazy morning sex, but he knows better than to try for it here and now.</i>  Fortunately, Fraser doesn't know any such thing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	(not very) sleepy morning sex

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks and blame to riverlight, isiscolo, and pearl_o.

The first thing Ray sees when he wakes up is Fraser's face, which is, hands down, his favorite way to wake up.

Ray's hair—he can see it, for a change, reflected in the enormous mirror over the dresser—is even more ridiculous than usual, with one side all smushed down from where he was pressed up against Fraser. The other side is spiky and fluffy, and Ray knows right away that it's because Fraser was running his hands through it while Ray slept, petting him, sculpting his bed-head into little tufts and points. Fraser does that, sometimes. Kind of a lot, actually: whenever he wakes up before Ray (which is more-or-less always), he just stays there, watching Ray sleep and petting his hair; letting Ray drool on his shoulder.

It's weird, but Ray's more than willing to go with it. Watching is Fraser's thing, after all: he watches over people, watches out for them, watches them make their own decisions and helps them pick up the pieces afterwards. More often than not, he watches them walk away.

Ray's got no problem with being the person who stays.

Ray's breath is kind of ooky, and he can barely even open his eyes, he's that tired, but he smiles at Fraser anyway, and Fraser smiles back, pressing a kiss against Ray's shoulder.

"Good morning, Ray," he says, and fuck, that's more sexy than it has any right to be. Fraser kisses him again, right at his jawline, his lips brushing the wrong way against Ray's stubble. They'll be red all through breakfast, and Fraser will lick them without seeming to notice, and Ray will be hard enough to cut steel and trying to hide it, and Vecchio will guess, but he won't have any proof—

The thought of Vecchio takes him right out of it, because, _fuck_, how could he forget? They're in Vecchio's house—and not just Vecchio's house, but The Vecchio House, with the assembled multitudes in bedrooms all around them, just waiting to be woken up by noisy sex from the second guestroom. _Fuck_.

They would have stayed at Ray's old apartment, except they _couldn't_, because the last time he was in Chicago Ray had signed the lease over to Elaine, figuring that it was, you know, the last time he'd be in Chicago. He was moving to the frozen northlands to live his big gay Canadian romance; why the hell did he need a one-bedroom apartment (complete with shitty AC and noisy neighbors) in downtown Chicago?

Apparently, he needs it for a place to stay when he and his partner get called down to liaise on a case that "requires your particular expertise, Detective." God damn Welsh, anyway.

They could have stayed at a hotel, but Vecchio had offered, so here they are. Ray's pretty sure that the invitation came from Ma Vecchio more than from her son, and that it was directed more towards Fraser than it was towards Ray "Not Italian" Kowalski, but he'd figured that it beat the hell out of a hotel. Ma Vecchio's linguine alone made it better than a hotel, and her desserts were good enough that even Fraser, Mr. Polite, would fight for the last bite.

The upside of a hotel, he's realizing, is not having to worry about other people coming in and noticing that a) the cot they'd set up for you has been shoved, still made, to one corned of the room, b) you're sharing the bed with your Mountie partner, and c) you're sharing that bed in a very naked sort of way.

And, see, Ray knows that if they don't get up right now, they'll have sex. It'll be slow and lazy and the hottest thing since the last time they had sex (against the cabin door, the day they left). Fraser will probably fuck Ray, easing into him in the smallest possible increments and then just _staying_ there, until eventually Ray goes crazy and starts doing the fucking himself, pushing back against Fraser's cock and Fraser's chest, Fraser's lips on the nape of his neck and the bones in his shoulder, teeth digging in just enough to push them both over the edge.

Or maybe Ray will blow Fraser, curl around his body and suck his dick like there's nothing in the world he'd rather be doing, which, hey: there isn't, so how about that? That would be good, too: the weight of Fraser on his tongue, against the back of his mouth, and the smell and the taste of Fraser, and the way Fraser moves his hips when he's right on the edge of coming his brains out, the way he sucks in a breath of air and then lets it out on Ray's name. Yeah, that'd be nice, because if they do that, Fraser will wrap his hand around Ray's dick to finish him off. Ray has dreams about Fraser's hands, sometimes—nothing else, just the hands, finding all of his hot spots and driving him insane, holding him just right and bringing him to the edge over and over again. Fraser has _amazing_ hands.

The thing is, all of these scenarios have something in common. Ray and Fraser will screw, and then Ray and Fraser will come, and then Ray will fall back asleep as soon as they're finished, all fucked-out and sleepily blissful. Which is not at all a bad thing, of course. Ray has nothing at all against that; in fact, he's got more than a few somethings in favor of it.

The problem, though, is with what comes next. If Ray falls asleep, Fraser will start watching him, and won't wake him up, and will probably fall back asleep himself (although of course he'll deny it if Ray ever tries to call him on it). He won't cover them up, because Fraser was raised in North Nowhere and doesn't think of Chicago as 'cold' at all. He'll just let them stay there, naked and sweaty and crushed up against each other, dozing together in the morning light.

And then a Vecchio will walk in—Ray, or Frannie, or (please, God, no) Ma—and their lazy morning will be shot to shit. Ray wants his sleepy, lazy morning sex, but he knows better than to try for it here and now. If he doesn't want to be kicked out on his ear, he needs to get up _now_, get up and save all that slow, sweet fucking until they have the time to do it _right_. He kisses Fraser's shoulder, and then rolls off of him, heading for the dresser with that ridiculous mirror hanging over it.

Tries to, anyway. Fraser's got both arms around him, and one leg, too, tugging Ray back against him; when he lets his teeth scrape against the big muscle in Ray's neck, Ray gives up on moving.

"Fraser," he says, "Fraser, we need to, _fuck_," and, yeah, he gets distracted for a moment, but that's only because Fraser's hands are rubbing at the crease in his thigh, like Fraser can smooth it away it he keeps at it long enough. It's distracting, and Ray's distracted, but he regroups, keeps going. "Fraser, we cannot do this," he says, and his voice only shakes a little.

"Why not, Ray?" Fraser asks, running his tongue along the side of Ray's neck. "I certainly want to, and I suspect—" his hand moves over, wraps around Ray's dick just long enough to make Ray moan, and then goes back to the rubbing "—I suspect that you would enjoy it as well."

"That's not the point, Fraser," Ray says, squirming around until they're face to face again. Fraser's eyes are all pupil, it looks like, and his lips are already red and tender-looking; it's all Ray can do to keep talking in complete sentences. "The point is that if we do this—which I want to, do not ever doubt that I want to—if we do this, we will fall _asleep_, and we will miss breakfast, and someone will come and wake us up." No need to elaborate on how much of a disaster that would be.

"You have a point, Ray," Fraser says, and, _yes_, Fraser's on board, now, he's nodding, and that's real good, because someone has to get them out of this bed, and Ray's not sure it can be him. Fraser pushes Ray backwards, and sits up against the headboard—good, good, all good—and then he reaches up, flips Ray over again, and pulls him back until he's sitting on Fraser's lap, Fraser's cock pressing insistently against his ass.

"We'll just have to make sure we stay awake, Ray," he says. Ray just crosses his fingers, because sheer dumb luck is the only thing between them and Death By Vecchio, right now.

As usual, though, Fraser's way ahead of him, because while Ray's focusing on coordinating his muscles long enough to do _that_, Fraser's fingers are slipping under his hip, slick and shiny, and pushing into Ray's ass. It's sudden and electrifying, and he sits up straighter from the shock, which of course only makes him sink down further.

"Shh, Ray," Fraser says. "We wouldn't want to attract any attention, would we?" His voice is sly and smug, right there in Ray's ear. Ray gets his own, though: he fucks himself on Fraser's fingers, feeling the press and the drag, the in and the out, little shivers of pleasure running along his spine. Fraser moans, and his other hand goes tight on Ray's hip, and Ray gasps, breathless and horny and not regretting any of it.

"Shh, Fraser," he says, "We wouldn't want to—oh, _fuck_!" Fraser's fingers are gone, but his dick is there, huge and thick and splitting Ray open, filling him up with a thousand volts of sheer fucking joy.

Fraser fucks him slowly, partly because of the angle and partly because every time he speeds up at all, Ray's voice gets away from him and he starts moaning, these low, crazy moans that fill the whole room, echoing sex back at them from every corner. When that happens, Fraser has to stop, which makes Ray clench down, trying to make him start up again, and Fraser groans from the effort of holding back. They're being as quiet as they can; they're being so fucking noisy that the neighbors can probably hear them.

When Ray comes, it's like the top of a rollercoaster, like the highest point in a baseball's arc: a breathless instant of perfect, total stillness, and then the long, screaming rush downwards, Fraser's orgasm rocketing through him like gravity on the last curve, another part of the thrill.

It takes him a while to come all the way back to the real world; when he does, he finds that Fraser has pulled them apart and cleaned them both up, and is tracing his fingers in little circles just below Ray's belly button. Ray twitches, ticklish, and feels Fraser's mouth curve into a smile against the side of his face.

"You're awake, Ray," he points out, and yeah, Ray is. He's about to compliment Fraser on his plan when a knock on the door drives them apart.

"Fraser? Ray?" It's Frannie, of course. "You two coming down for breakfast? We're almost ready." The doorknob rattles, but doesn't turn, and the door stays closed. "Hey!" Frannie says, sounding put out, "Why'd you two lock the door?" Ray stares at Fraser, who grins and tosses Ray a pair of pants.

"Frannie, leave them alone," Vecchio's voice says. "Even crazy Canadians have a right to some privacy, don't they?" Their voices drift off, and Ray can hear feet on the stairs; he pulls a t-shirt over his head and goes to help Fraser with the buttons on his shirt.

"Hey, Fraser," he says, feeling the way the muscles of Fraser's stomach jump against the backs of his fingers, "I think I've got a new favorite way to wake up." Fraser finishes the top buttons, and raises his eyebrows at Ray.

"I quite agree, Ray," he says, "although of course we really ought to try again, just for scientific accuracy."

And Ray is all _over_ that.


End file.
